Not Like This Revisited
by harvincy
Summary: An alternate version of my story "Not Like This." The story divergence starts in chapter 8, so that's where we start here! For the first 7 chapters, look at the original version.
1. Candy

Subtle differences and one or two new scenes in this chapter that lead to major changes and a new story all together in the following chapters.

* * *

8. Candy.

I had to carry him inside. He went limp in my arms from exhaustion, so I carried him to bed, even though it was only 10am.

He said something about dreams and memories and that I was the one in them, so that gives me some hope. But... You know what? I'm not thinking about it right now. I'm watching some mindless Christmas movie when a knock sounds on the front door and, considering I'm expecting no one and I didn't order pizza, I rest a hand on the hilt of my gun as I inch to the door and glance through the peep-hole.

It's Kyle. It's Kyle with what looks like paint.

"Hey," I whisper as I open the door and step outside.

He crinkles his brow in question. "Do we need to whisper?"

"P—" I'm about to say Piers' name but stop myself. "My friend's sleeping. He's sick so I'm trying to let him rest."

"Oh, yeah, that's fine." He clears his throat. "I just wanted to drop off the paint for the truck before I went to work. I was gonna try to swing by some time this weekend and start on it. You can't be seen driving around in a sanded-down Cheyenne," he smiles.

I return the grin. "I appreciate it. You're going out of way for a damn truck, but thanks." He nods and turn to leave, but I stop him. "Kyle, I actually wanted to call you earlier and ask you a question; I need a favour."

"Shoot, Redfield."

"Your family owns the grocery store, don't they?"

"Yeah, how'd you figure that out? You don't talk to anyone..."

"Your mom's always there (sometimes the only one there), and, the times that I've gone right when the store opens, hers has been the only car in the lot."

"Hm. Alright then, what does this favour of yours have to do with my family owning the grocery store?"

"Do you think it would be possible for me and my, uh, friend to use the shop after closing one night?"

He doesn't seem opposed, even though he says, "Can I ask 'why?'"

I don't want to throw Piers under the bus, don't want to make him seem weak y any stretch of the imagination. "His injuries from our last tour are extensive. I think he's afraid of scaring the locals."

Kyle's takes a moment but slowly nods. "I'll see what I can do. My mom's so smitten with you anyway— I'm sure she'll jump at the chance to help you out. Probably start kicking people out three hours early just to dust everything for the occasion."

I have to chuckle. "She's a good woman."

Kyle merely grins and starts heading back to his truck before calling, "I'll let you know as soon as I talk to her. And let me know about painting the truck."

I wave as he drives away and I hear loud thump from behind me.

What the hell was that? I jog back into the house and find Piers sprawled out face-down on the floor between the bedroom and the kitchen. Shit. "Piers?" I kneel beside him, feeling for a pulse first. It's there. Thank god. Alright... "Piers?" He's not responding. "Goddammit!" I roll him over onto his back and pull him into my lap. "Piers, please, wake up."

Fuck. I don't know what to do.

Piers begins shaking, his eyes fly open, a gasp escapes him. He tries to say my name buy he can't speak around a stutter that forms, though his left hand grips my forearm tightly. "It... hurts..." he manages.

Christ. _**I don't know what to do. **_All I can do, all I know to do, is hold him close to me, whispering that it'll be okay.

Wait. Leon's mobile. I dig the phone from my pocket and press his speed dial. There's ringing. And ringing. "Goddammit, Leon, pick up the fucking phone..."

Piers' shaking has turned violent and I have to drop the phone to hold him still. He's murmuring my name now, but it's a plea. A plea to help him, to make the pain cease.

But I just feel useless.

I'm praying. I don't know to who or what and I'm not sure what I'm asking, just... goddammit, just help him, just let the pain stop, please.

He's begging me to help him. How can I tell him that I can't? He's like this because of me and I can't do one fucking thing to help him.

This should be me. I should be the one in pain, not Piers. I should be the one with the scars, not Piers.

It just shouldn't be this way; not like this.

He's back from the dead, he's in my arms, and instead of holding him like I should I'm trying to keep him still, trying to comfort him. I'm not sure what kind of sick sense of humour life has, but I hate it.

Piers starts heaving, so I turn him on his side in case he vomits.

He does.

"Chris," He's still gripping me with his left hand, but it's a weak hold, and he's dripping with sweat, "can I go back to bed?"

"Yeah, yeah, of course, c'mon." Gingerly, I make it to my feet, pulling Piers with me and helping him limp back into the bedroom and under the safety of the blankets. I grab a bottle of water from the kitchen but, when I return, he's already asleep again, so I set it on the nightstand and back out of the room.

A stench hits me and I look down only to see that my left side took the majority of Piers' regurgitation. A shower it is, then.

My clothes hit the floor as soon as I enter the bathroom and I throw the water on as hot as it can go, considering that the cold weather's been effecting the pipes. I step into the glass shower and let the stinging heat wash everything away: the vomit, the pain, the confusion, the rage, everything.

There's something welling up in me, starting in my gut, and I can't fight it. Christ, I'm shaking. My back hits the shower wall and I sink to the floor as my chest tightens and my shoulders hunch.

I'm crying. Goddammit, I'm crying. No... more like weeping. For fuck's sake, I shouldn't be openly bawling like this, but I can't stop it.

This just shouldn't have happened to Piers. But not only did it happen, but there's nothing I can do to fix. And I think that's where most of the frustration comes from.

I can't fix it.

Bell chimes come from the pile of discarded clothes but I can't even find it in me to push myself up from the floor. Leon can leave a message. I doubt he'd have anything helpful to say right now, anyway.

0o0o0o0

I wallowed in my self-pity for almost an hour. When I realized my hands were far too wrinkled from the water, I pulled myself out of the shower and tossed my robe on, shuffling out to the kitchen after I dug both of my phones from the pants left on the tile floor.

One phone held a message from Leon asking if I was okay. The other held a message from Kyle saying Joyce would be ready for us at 9:30 tonight.

So now I'm back on the sofa, watching more mindless made-for-tv Christmas movies. God, these things are sappy.

Yet (and I can't believe I'm going to admit this) it's making me want something similar. I kind of want that moment in front of the fireplace or under mistletoe or just sitting in front of a lit tree with Piers.

I can feel myself getting sappier by the second.

There's the soft sound of feet pattering that shakes me from my reverie. Turning off the tv, I head to the kitchen to find Piers opening up cabinets, looking for something.

"Thanks for the water," he says without facing me.

"Yeah, no problem." I lean against the wall and just watch him for a moment. He seems embarrassed, which is something I can't have, so I try to relieve some tension. "Hey, check the cabinet over the stove. Bottom shelf."

Piers does so and freezes momentarily when his eyes land on the bags of candy. Grabbing one, he closes the cabinet and turns to face me. "Gummi bears?"

I just nod, but I'm rewarded with a smile so I don't press the issue further, instead changing the subject. "I've got some good news: We get the grocery store in town all to ourselves tonight."

He's mid-opening the bag and stops, his eyes locking onto mine. "Why? How?"

"Well, I know you're kinda caught between wanting to go out and not wanting to... stir the pot, so to speak, so I figured we'd split the difference. And I guess you could say I'm friends with the owners, so they set it up for us. We go at 9:30." I'm hoping he'll be receptive to the idea, but the expression I'm met with has me worried.

He looks as if he's going to speak, but he suddenly takes a step back, grimacing, his hands flying to his temples. "Shit!"

"What's wrong?"

"Fuckin' headache; it feels like my head's caving in."

"Is it as bad as before?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I just need to lie down."

Fast as I can, I help him to the bedroom once again.

As he lays down, he looks like he's going to immediately slip back into sleep, so I quietly exit. Before I can pull the door closed, I hear him murmur, "Chris? Can you grab me another bottle of water? And the gummi bears?"

Smiling despite it all, I do as he asks before I head back to the living room and set myself up in front of the tv before we need to leave.

I swear, these goddamn overly saccharine-sweet Christmas specials are gonna make me stab something.

But I'm still gonna watch.

0o0o0o0

I actually had to wake Piers up to get him ready in time to head to Joyce's store. The entire ride over he popped gummi bears in his mouth, but he also kept staring at the bag like it was speaking to him.

Who knows? Maybe it was.

When the Cheyenne finally pulls into the near-empty lot, Piers slides out of the truck, taking several tentative steps towards the store before stopping and staring at the half-empty candy bag in his hand. He mumbles something but I miss it.

Please be okay. "Do you not want to go in?"

"No, that's not what I said." He holds up the bag. "I mentioned liking these things _**once;**_ and you remembered."

Of course. "You remember mentioning them?" He's not said once that he _**remembers**_ something, so... this is good.

The realization hits him. "Yeah, I do. We were waiting for a bomb to be detonated on a bridge somewhere and you were trying to make me less nervous by asking these dumb questions like what my favorite candy was... And was there someone named Finn? The name Finn seems to be there, too..."

I watch him put the candy in his pocket before walking towards him and patting him on the back. "Ready? There'll only be two people in there."

"But it's two people who've never seen me before."

"Want me to say it's a Halloween costume that you're just not ready to take it off?" He glares at me but I just squeeze his shoulder in understanding. "I wouldn't put you through anything I wasn't 100% sure you could handle."

He scoffs. "I couldn't even handle getting out of bed this morning."

"Piers, stop it. That wasn't your fault."

"I know, I know. I'll have good days and bad days and all that shit."

Finally, he starts forward towards the store. At the threshold, he stops, sparing me one more glance.

"You'll be fine," I wink. "Let's go." A thought strikes me before we hit the entrance. "I'll explain this later, but we're gonna have to introduce you with a different name. Any thoughts?"

"That name Finn is stuck in my head. Let's just go with that."

Kyle's sitting on one of the conveyor belts at the check-out lane closest to us when we finally enter. To his credit, he doesn't flinch at all as he hops to his feet and approaches us, his hand extending as he introduces himself. "How're you doin'? I'm Kyle."

Piers has tensed so much that I can feel the anxiety vibrating through the air around is.

"Name's Finn," he says shortly, extending his left hand instead of displaying the discolouration of his right.

The move doesn't bristle Kyle, who switches hands and goes through with the shake. "Good to meet you, Finn. My mom had to go home and help my little sister with something for school, so she left me here to watch the fort. You two just grocery shoppin' or you looking for something in particular?"

"Well, I noticed you guys have that holiday aisle set-up in the back, and we are in desperate need of some ornaments."

Piers head whips to face me but he says nothing.

"Alright then," Kyle chuckles, "seems like you guys know what you want. I'll leave you to it. Holler when you wanna check out."

Grabbing a shopping cart, I lead Piers to the back of the store where Joyce had set-up an entire winter wonderland section that I'd never had reason to notice until Piers arrived.

Entranced, he picks up a pack of ornaments. "What can we get?"

"Whatever you want," I chuckle. "Whatever you wanna stare at 'til January 1st." Picking up a tree stand, I toss it in the cart. "See? Just snap something up and drop it in. It's easy."

It's like I flipped a switch. Piers immediately grabs one of everything, or at least that's how it seems. Ornaments that run the colour spectrum, garland, things with holly that I'm not quite sure what they are, packs of fake snow, lights (for both inside and outside), a star for the top of the tree... I'm losing track, but that cart's filled to bursting.

Proudly, Piers places one final ornament, a teddy bear, into the basket. "There. Done. Now where's that... _**Kyle.**_"

I catch the unmistakeable disdain coating his words. "Hey, what's up? You just met the guy."

"He looks like me," Piers mumbles. "Or what I _**used**_ to look like, anyway."

"Piers—"

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine."

Kyle's lounging on the same conveyor belt he was on when we arrived and he hops down and starts bagging the ridiculous amount of decorations. "Definitely gonna brighten up that little place of yours, especially since I heard the sale on the new place won't go through 'til after the first."

I cock an eyebrow, slightly curious as to how he knew that. "Yeah. Got about eleven days left."

Piers just watches us.

When the final bag is placed in the cart, Kyle grins and begins walking to the entrance.

"I need to pay."

"Joyce told me to tell you to consider it a 'Welcome to Woodsford' slash early Christmas present." Unlocking the door, he gestures us outside. "You gentlemen have a good night."

Spouting off 'thank you's and 'good night's, we step into the parking lot and begin loading up the truck, but not before I turn around and catch Kyle through the large front windows swiping his credit card at the same register on which he rung up everything.

Piers actually looks like an excited puppy, so I drive a bit more quickly than usual on the drive home, excited myself to actually do something normal with him.

There's no preamble to what we're doing. Despite the short height of the tree, it takes the two of us to get it in the tree stand, pine needles poking us in our faces at every turn.

And the lights are already getting tangled, though my frustration is a huge source of amusement for Piers, which cools my blood a bit.

We start placing ornaments on the short, stubby pine when Piers bolts into the kitchen, leaving me praying that he's not about to have another episode.

But he returns, grinning, and holding another pack of gummi bears. "You ever string cereal on a tree as a kid?"

"Yeah, once or twice. It was normally the round pieces."

"Well, let's string gummi bears."

"I don't think I have anything to string them up with."

"You did in one of the kitchen drawers. You didn't clean out anything from the last renters, did you?"

I shrug, "It's a good thing I didn't, right?"

Piers laughs me off, showing me the thread and needle he found.

"So you're going to stab the poor, defenseless bears and then hang them from a tree for amusement?"

"Yes," Piers replies, threading the needle and smiling vindictively, "and I'm going to love every second of it." Producing one helpless little gummi, he stabs the needle through its side, sliding it down the thread. "See?"

Watching him poke the candy bears, I ask, "Can I have one? I've never had one before."

Piers almost drops the needle in shock. "How in the hell have you gone thirty-nine years without a gummi bear?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake you sound like Kyle; can I have one, please?"

Piers' eyes darken at the mention of Kyle, but he seems to let it go. Reaching into the bag, he pulls out a red one and holds it out to me.

Popping it in my mouth, I let the small little bear half dissolve into a puddle of sugar that I didn't realize I missed from childhood. "I haven't had candy in years," I mutter. "That's actually really good."

"I really can't believe you've never had gummi bears... Almost blasphemous..."

"Here," I take over killing the little bears for Piers, who seems thoroughly exhausted. "You ready for bed?

"I would be if I could find that bear ornament I got. We're missing that and the tree topper."

"Huh." He's right. We'd emptied every bag and everything was on the tree already, but there was no sign of the one thing Piers had been the most excited about. "Well, if we don't find it tomorrow, we'll go get another one."

Piers lets out a yawn and a "Sure" before getting to his feet and stretching. "I actually am tired; I'm gonna turn in."

"Need anything?"

"Nah, I'm good. Just make sure you string those bears up right." There's a playful lilt to his tone that has me smiling. Any moment where Piers' burden seems a little lighter makes me happy.

I can't help but watch him shuffling around the corner and listen for the door to click closed.

Now it's just me again with the goddamn Christmas shows. I decide to cancel The Hallmark Channel tomorrow.

Headlights flood the small living room through the windows, so I immediately drop the bears and hop to my feet, stepping out on to the porch before anyone has the chance to bang on the front door and disturb Piers.

It's Kyle. It's Kyle on my porch at almost midnight holding a bag. And, for some reason, all I can think to say is, "I know what you did."

Kyle merely shrugs, "I don't know what you're talking about."

My chuckling voids any anger that might have resounded with my declaration of, "Oh, bullshit. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I can't do something nice for you?"

I step out onto the porch and pull the door closed behind me, securing Piers inside; God knows how he'd react if he heard Kyle. "You've already made my truck run better and you're planning on painting it... You're already doing something nice."

He shrugs again. "Welcome to Woodsford, where random acts of kindness are a daily occurrence."

"Yeah, but, Kyle—"

"Just accept that someone wants to be nice. Quit acting like it's some huge travesty."

But you can't be _**too **_nice. I can't like you _**too**_ much.

"Are you afraid of what Finn'll think?"

"Christ, Kyle..."

"No, I get it, I do!" He takes a step towards me and rubs a hand across the back of his neck as if to rub out any anxiety he has. "I can be friendly, Chris. I can respect boundaries— as long as I know what they are."

_**I **_don't even know what the boundaries are. "I guess we just keep it friendly."

"Until Finn tells you otherwise?"

I open my mouth to respond, but I'm quickly cut off.

"I'm kidding, sorry..." Kyle hands me the bag and begins backing down the porch stairs to his truck. "How about we all work on the truck this weekend? That thing's **got** to get painted. Plus it might help Finn realize I'm not such a bad guy."

"He doesn't think you're a bad guy, Kyle."

"I'm not a country bumpkin, Chris; his immediate dislike of me was so palpable that you could taste it." He opens the truck door and gives me one last smile. "Let me know tomorrow at the Festival." With that, he hops in his truck, turns the engine, and drives away, leaving me without a true explanation as to why he showed up in the first place.

I wait until stepping back inside and situating myself on the sofa before looking in the bag. It's the tree topper and the bear ornament.

Well. Piers should be happy, at least.


	2. Mistletoe

09. Mistletoe.

I'm awoken by the smell of pancakes and coffee and a sharp pain in my back.

Sleeping on a fold-out is not all it's cracked up to be, a literal pain in the ass.

Stiffly, I kick off my blanket and shuffle into the doorway of the kitchen, greeted with the sight of Piers wearing my robe, removing pancakes from the frying pan and plopping them onto plates. When he turns to face me, my heart catches in my throat, but I keep my features in check.

It spread. The blackened edges of the marred skin have begun to creep subtly to the left side of his face. It's barely noticeable; I wonder if even he's noticed it? Of course _**I**_ have— I notice everything about him.

He's smiling, but his hands are shaking as he sets our plates down on the dining table before turning back to the coffee pot and pouring us both a mug. "Still take it black?"

I make sure my voice stays even. "Yeah. You remember that?"

"I remember a lot about you," Piers replies, sitting across from me and taking a small sip. "A lot of it's hazy, like a dream, but I remember _**you**_." Before I can respond, he points to a flier that's now hanging from a magnet on the fridge. "Let's go."

It's the flier for the Christmas Eve festival tonight, the same festival Kyle is expecting us at. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah." He shoves a much-too-large forkful into his mouth, forcing himself to wash it down with a gulp of coffee. "I've thought a lot about what you said before, you know, about not caring what I look like. You're right. After everything you and I accomplished, anyone who judges me based on these markings can screw off."

The smile that spreads across my face is huge, curling up until my teeth are showing.

"Well, someone's happy," he grins.

"I _**am**_ happy, Piers. And, yeah, of course we'll go tonight." My thoughts drift just slightly as we continue with our breakfast, and I figure now's as good a time as any to bring something up, "Kyle's going to come over this weekend, help with the truck."

Piers' face stays absolutely blank. "Fine. What else needs to be done?"

"I'm not quite sure about the interior, but we're going to paint it." I pause, clearing my throat a bit. "It's be nice if you helped us."

"Of course. Give me something to do."

Hm. Well, that's a good response. I guess. Completely emotionless and most likely hiding something, but it's still better than the alternative of flat-out refusing.

"So," Piers takes a shaky sip of coffee, "tell me about this new house."

"It's about twenty minutes from here, still on the outskirts, but it's two stories. Plenty of room. It's like a... farmhouse, I guess."

"Is there a barn?"

"No, no barn."

"Shame. It might've been interesting to get a couple of cows, some pigs, have actual chickens lay our eggs."

"Well, the land _**is**_ big enough; we _**could **_have a barn."

Piers chuckles, running a piece of pancake through the thick layer of syrup on his plate. "So a regular barn-raising? Is the whole town gonna turn out for this? We'll all stay up into the night with a bonfire, roast us up some grub, share stories about when the town was founded and swap grilled squirrel recipes?"

"Hey," I laugh, "you're the one that brought this up! And this town is not that... rustic."

"'Rustic' is a pretty interesting term."

"Maybe you just need to get out and see it for yourself," I offer. "See that it's just regular people who would have the utmost respect for yourself; well, as long as you have respect for them."

"I have respect for all people," he mumbles around pancake.

"Sure. Make sure to tell yourself that when you're asking people for their squirrel recipes, kid."

"Did you just call me 'kid'?"

"Yeah."

"Don't. Please."

"Well, you're lacking a nickname, and I can't have that. What about Junior?"

He rolls his eyes, "Dear god, no."

"Cupcake?"

"No."

"Sugar lumps?"

He raises a hand to silence me. "You know what? 'Kid' doesn't sound that bad."

I chuckle to myself and continue shoveling pancakes in my greedy mouth; I feel like I haven't eaten this well in a long time. "Soon as you're ready, we'll head out."

Piers sips his coffee quietly for a few minutes more before saying quietly, "I think you're right. I think going out into town might do me some good. But... not today. I'll go see the house, but we're already going to the festival tonight. One step at a time, okay?"

I nod. "Sure thing, kid."

0o0o0o0o0o

Piers is quiet on the drive to the new place, but I expect that; everything's still seemingly new to him.

I unlock the door and usher him in, gesturing grandly about me, running through the list of things Kyle had gone on about not that long ago. Finally, I lean against the stair-rail. "Well?"

Piers stands in the middle of the empty living room, turning in a slow circle, letting the idea of living here sink in.

I wish I could read his mind, wish I could see if this was what he wanted. God knows it's what _**I**_ want, what I feel I desperately need to keep going in this life.

"The place is huge," he finally murmurs. "I haven't even seen upstairs, but the first floor is huge." His back is to me. "How many bedrooms?"

"Three total."

"One for you, one for me; what's your plans for the third? Guest?"

"Well, Piers, it's going to be _**our**_ place essentially. You can have a say in what happens with it."

"Then I want a candy room."

"A—" I'm cut off by my own laughter. "A _**what**_?"

"A candy room." His face holds no mirth and is almost stone.

Christ, he's serious. "A candy room?"

"Yeah. We can put those dispensers up all around the walls. Maybe put in those ice cream counters like at Baskin Robbins."

"So you basically want to put in a diabetes room."

That earns me a small laugh. "I just want... God, I don't know. I have no idea what I want. The candy room just sounded kinda fun, I guess. I'm just shitting around; don't take it seriously."

But you were serious. "Fuck it. Piers, if you want a goddamn candy room, we can do a goddamn candy room."

"Two grown men living together in Woodsford with a candy room. What will the neighbors say?"

"Considering our neighbors are a family of raccoons, they'd probably love us and try to sneak in."

Another silence washes over us, something I'm growing accustomed to, though I'm truly not happy about it.

But Piers does speak again, his eyes narrowed a bit in question. " Do you see us being here so long that you would actually considering building a damn candy room?"

I know he's not talking about a fucking imaginary room; he's talking about us, though in what context, I'm not sure. "I... Yeah. I mean, if we're conquering all of... all of this... Then, yeah, I absolutely see us being here a while."

He's twitching a bit now, but I don't think it's another episode about to happen. "What is it, Piers?"

"You don't have to do this. You didn't have to do any of it. They could've just turned me over to... to someone... You could've just gone with your life."

No. I couldn't. That's why I was here in the first place. _**This **_is the only way I _**can**_ go on. "Just accept that someone wants to do something nice for you. Besides," I push myself off of the stairs and make my way towards him, fighting the urge to embrace him and instead just squeezing his shoulder, "you've earned it. I'm standing by my belief that you saved that whole goddamn planet. Learn to live with your accomplishments _**and**_ what they bring about."

There's a small grin there. "Thanks."

"Now. You ready for that festival?"

"I have a sinking feeling that this place has like three festivals a month. Am I wrong in thinking that?"

"Honestly, Piers, I don't think you are. Oh, and just, um... brace yourself for Joyce." Without another word, I head out to the truck.

"What about Joyce?" Piers calls after me. "Hey... Chris, what about Joyce?"

I chuckle to myself. Kid'll find out soon enough.

0o0o0o0o0

Piers has the hood of his jacket pulled up, my scarf wrapped protectively around his neck and up to his chin. His hands are covered in the safety of gloves, but I don't sense it's enough.

He's shaking beside me as we head from Main Street to the festival grounds, and I squeeze his hand encouragingly. "Everyone's going to love you, especially Joyce."

As if summoned by a ritual, the one-woman welcoming committee known as Joyce Smithers appears hurrying towards us, her arms open in welcome. "You must be Finn!" she greets, wrapping Piers in a tight hug. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm so glad to meet you!" If she notices Piers' scars (and they're impossible to discount even through the wrappings), she doesn't let on. "Now, rumour has it you're a big-time hero, have I got that straight?"

"Damn straight," I reply, smiling at the man beside me.

"Well then, you've got to come meet some of our resident soldiers, Finn! We've actually got a couple of purple hearts in our midst." With that pageant-winning smile of hers, Joyce drags Piers away, ignoring the polite protest he's trying to give.

"Didn't think you'd show," Kyle walks up behind me as his mom and Piers disappear into the crowd.

I start walking after them, saying, "I figured that since I had such a great time at the winter fest, the Christmas Eve one would be flat-out amazing."

"Yeah, Woodsford has a bad habit of festivals," Kyle laughs quietly, walking beside me with an almost too comfortable ease, his arm bumping mine. He stops beside a funnel cake stand, nodding towards it and asking, "Ever had one?"

"Yeah, actually, I did when I was a teenager."

He laughs, "That's good. At least you've done _**something**_." We're close to a lamppost, and I see him look up only to see mistletoe hanging from it. "Shit." He quickly takes a step back from underneath it. "Did not plan that. And I'm not under it anymore, so there's no expectations."

"Wow. When you said you would keep it friendly, you really meant it. Even to the point of being paranoid."

"Look, I have no idea what's up between you and Finn, but I'll be damned if I'm going to be the one to screw it up. I like you too much for that. And... it seems like you've both been through a lot." He smiles, adding, "You probably deserve something good in your life."

I suddenly feel fingers wrapping around my wrist and turn to see Piers looking completely disheveled. "Chris, I can't handle this woman!"

"You didn't warn him about my mom?" Kyle laughs. "That's just damn cruel."

"She wants us to have Christmas dinner at their house tomorrow," Piers continues. "She was so insistent and I'm not sure how it happened but I said 'okay.'"

Kyle's laughing openly. I try to stifle my amusement but I can't. "That's fine, P—Finn." I turn my attention to Kyle. "Should we bring anything?"

"Just your smiles and bright personalities!" Joyce magically appears at my other side. "I'm so excited you boys can come! Oh, you'll love it! Maybe we can even get Kyle here to sing a bars for us after supper."

"I told you, Mom, if you want me to sing bars, you need to provide me with an open bar," Kyle states. "That's only fair."

Joyce waves him off. "C'mon, boys, the kids are just about to sing around the tree."

"Yeah, we're a regular Dr. Seuss special," Kyle mutters, winking at both Piers and I, adding under his breath, "C'mon. I'll get you guys some 'special' apple cider. It'll warm you up _**and**_ help you handle Joyce."

"I heard that, smart ass," Joyce calls sweetly over her shoulder.

Piers laughs, _**laughs,**_ and I can't help but laugh myself.

The whole situation feels good. And, all things considered, I think we deserve it.


	3. Souffle

10. Souffle.

This feels very foreign. I feel as if I've actually stepped into one of those goddamn Christmas specials I keep bitching about as I stand next to Piers on the Smithers' front porch, bottle of white wine in hand.

For his part, Piers looks relaxed, adjusting the tie he borrowed from me and running fingers through his hair in a bit of a last-minute fix. "Should we have brought something besides wine?"

"Joyce said we didn't need to bring anything," I assure. "I think we'll be fine. Besides," I teasingly nudge his arm with my own, "we're also bringing our 'smiles and bright personalities'."

"Jesus..." Piers finally rings the doorbell with the hand that's showing more signs of deformed skin and it shoots a pang of worry through me momentarily.

But I don't have time to dwell on that as Kyle flings the door open, looking more disheveled than I'm used to seeing him. "Joyce... is on a rampage... You still have time: You can turn around right now and fake an illness. Or death. No, no, don't fake illness or she'll spend ten hours making my grandma's secret chicken soup and bring it to you. And you probably shouldn't fake your deaths because that'll just give her a reason to make a 'sorry about your loss of life' cake and plan the funerals."

"Kyle?" Joyce's voice sounds from somewhere behind the younger man. "Is that the boys?"

"Run!" Kyle hisses before he's unceremoniously shoved out of the way and the woman of the hour pulls both Piers and I into the pageant queen version of a bear hug.

"Chris! Finn! I'm so glad you boys came! Now," she takes a step back and begins rolling a list off with her fingers, "the deviled eggs, sugared ham cubes, sweet potato marshmallow pie, turducken, corn bread stuffing, mirliton casserole, cranberry dressing, and stuffed bell peppers are ready. But the piece de resistance, my grandmother's chocolate cheesecake souffle, is still being worked on; it takes hours. Oh, you brought wine! Thank you, precious!" She turns to sashay back to the kitchen. "Kyle, pop that open and pour some glasses while I'm working. We'll eat as soon as your father comes in."

There's a moment of stumped silence broken only by Piers' utterance of, "What the hell is a turducken?"

A weary Kyle shakes his head and nods towards a sitting nook ripped straight from _Homes & Gardens_ magazine and decorated for a spot in a remake of _Miracle on 34__th__ Street_. "Take a seat; I'll grab some glasses." He takes the bottle from me, adding, "You're definitely gonna wanna start downing this now." It only takes him a moment before he returns with three glasses and takes a seat opposite me and beside Piers. "So. Merry Christmas."

"You seem a bit verklempt," Piers muses, crossing his legs and sipping languidly on the offered drink as if he were about to open Masterpiece Theater.

A guffaw erupts from Kyle, almost costing him his wine as the glass almost slips from his hand. "'Verklempt'? I've been called many things in my time, but never verklempt."

"Speaking of your time, how old are you?"

I bite my tongue. I don't know what Piers' intentions are going to be, but it's just one question and it seems somewhat harmless.

"I'm 31."

"What do you do? You work at your mom's grocery store?"

Kyle takes it all in stride and treats it as a discussion of importance, as if we're discussing the philosophical ripples of the Council of Trent. "I do indeed. My dad owns the hardware store in town, but he and one of his buddies take care of that. My mom's place is much more vast, a large staff, more inventory and ordering... I pretty much run it for her so she can start getting ready to retire."

Piers nods. "Very good."

Kyle subtly winks at me and takes a long sip from his glass, clearly amused.

The front door's flung open so harshly we can hear it fly back and the door handle crash into the wall with a _bang_. "Food ready?" A man enters and strolls into view. He's a bit burly, wrapped up in a thick, knee-length jacket and a muff hat. His eyes fall to the three of us and he lets out a huff of a laugh, unwrapping a scarf from his neck and nodding to Kyle. "Friends of yours?"

Kyle opens his mouth to answer but Joyce appears from behind the newcomer and offers, "Terry, these are the boys I was telling you about. This is Chris Redfield and Finn."

Terry doesn't smile, only removes his hat and gloves. "You got a last name, Finn?"

Piers doesn't miss a beat. "Reynolds, Sir."

"Chris Redfield and Finn Reynolds." He looks us over once before turning to Joyce. "Dinner?"

Joyce's smile only grows brighter, "Yes, it's ready! C'mon, boys, let's get situated in the dining. Bring your drinks!"

The three walled dining room is just another example of Joyce's decorating skills and I feel a bit awkward, like a bear in a china shop, so I quickly take the first seat I see, trying to curve in my shoulders and make myself seem smaller.

Terry sits directly across from me and levels his gaze with mine. There's something about this man that has me on edge and I subconsciously feel the need to reach out and pull Piers closer to me, though I resist it. This just isn't' the place.

Joyce has already set the table with plates and food and we all begin making plates. Christ, this looks amazing, and the smell... My mouth's literally watering with need to just start shoveling the feast into my mouth.

"Where you boys live?"

"We just bought the farmhouse close to highway 11," I reply, almost overtaken by the sweet potatoes that are melting in my mouth. "Sale should go through in a couple of days."

"So you two live together?"

"Terry, honey," Joyce interrupts, "did you see I made the stuffed bell peppers?"

We ignore her, "Yes, sir, we're roommates."

"If you're new here, where'd you come from?"

"I was a Captain in the BSAA for years, moved around a lot. Piers was one of my men. He was injured during our last campaign, so we're here starting over, taking some time off."

Terry seems satiated for a bit, slicing some of the... turducken?... and taking an appreciative bite. But, as always, the peace doesn't last long as he asks, "You boys queers?"

Piers chokes on his wine.

Kyle stares daggers at his dad's face, but Terry continues to slice the meat on his plate as if he's asked about the weather.

"Terry!" Joyce looks scandalized, so much so that I'm more concerned for her than I am for Piers or myself.

"What? Am I not allowed to ask questions of two strangers sitting at my dinner table? It's just conversation, is all, Joyce."

I glance to Kyle who's now curling his fingers so tightly in the tablecloth that his knuckles have gone from tan to white to red with the threat of splitting.

"My boy's a queer, you know. Could've had his pick of any girl running around Woodsford, but he started chasing cock instead."

"Oh, dear Lord..." Joyce grabs her pearls and mutters a prayer under her breath before flashing a bright smile and pushing her chair back from the table. "I'm going to go check on the souffle. Terry, why don't you come help me?"

Shockingly, Terry follows without a word, though harsh whispers can be heard drifting from the kitchen and wrapping around the three of us left at the pseudo-perfect dining table like an ice-cold vice grip.

"I... I'm so sorry about him," Kyle bites out, his grip now holding to the edge of the table, threatening to break through the cherry wood. "He's a functioning alcoholic and an asshole."

Piers has said nothing and remained almost frozen in his seat.

"Don't worry about us," I soothe, "really. You seem more worked up about it."

"I'm used to living with his shit. It's just—"

A loud crashing and Joyce gasping erupt and send Kyle throwing back his chair and sprinting to the kitchen. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"Don't you come at me, boy!" Terry roars. "You don't get to prance around this house doing whatever you goddamn please."

"You're so fucking drunk!"

There's a sob and a plea from Joyce for them to keep their voices down before another door is heard opening and slamming.

Piers quietly stands and follows Kyle's path, leaving me to trail behind him in curiosity and concern.

The supposedly famous souffle is splattered across the otherwise immaculate kitchen, covering almost the entire floor and most of the bottom cabinets.

Kyle has his arms wrapped protectively around his mother, murmuring something soothing while trying to keep his own emotions in check.

In this moment, Joyce's facade is finally revealed: The perfectly coiffed appearance, the meticulously put-together outfits, the indelible model-smile, the need to pull Piers and I to her and take care of us; it was all a way to cope with what went on behind the curtain, with what most people would never be privy to see.

Kyle releases his hold on his mom, but more from her asking than him wanting.

Despite it all, Joyce's smile returns, albeit smaller, like her voice now. "I need to start cleaning up this kitchen. Why don't you boys go out on the back deck?" There's the barest tremble to her last syllable, as if she'll crack the second we're out of her vicinity.

Piers steps forward, grabbing a towel and dropping to his knee, wiping chocolate from a cabinet.

Joyce is going to protest but seems to think better of it, though she looks to me and Kyle and waves us out of the room.

"C'mon," Kyle whispers, taking my forearm and leading me through the kitchen door and out onto a modest deck overlooking a snow and tree-covered mountainous landscape.

"Should I have grabbed Finn?"

"She would've kicked him out if she felt she couldn't handle his company." He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigs and a lighter, offering me one, which I take hastily and let him light. "That couldn't have been comfortable to witness."

"That can't be comfortable to live with."

"It would be worse if I knew it was aimed at her, but it's not. I know he hates me, hates what I am."

"Does he hate gays that much?"

"No, he really doesn't. But he hates _**me**_ for being one. Hates that I've somehow ended the family name, that I'll never have what he considers a normal family, that he feels he could never talk about my spouse to anyone. He feels like I've never accomplished anything, that I have no dreams of grandeur."

"The hell does he want from you?"

"A wife, a grandson, and a career that doesn't involve the grocery store."

"Most folks would be thrilled that their son would want to stay close to home. You're not a bum or anything."

"I think he'd completely over-look that I work at the store if I had a pretty girl on my arm with a baby in her belly. Preferably a baby boy." He takes a long drag of his cig and leans against the nearby deck railing, letting his head fall back in exhaustion.

"You're tired." I don't know why I say it. Of course he knows he's tired; he's the one living in his body. I think I just wanted him to know that I understood, even if just a bit.

He opens one eye to me and grins a bit, murmuring, "You're tired, too."

"We can be tired together."

"Oh, my dad would love the implications of that!" He takes another drag and runs his free hand over his face, sighing, "God damn everything."

I find myself wanting nothing more than to comfort him in some way, help him through whatever's running through his over-worked mind. "Listen, if I get too personal, tell me to back off. But he's never touched Joyce, has he."

"Fuck no," Kyle's head immediately jolts upward, signaling I've hit on a topic he's dwelt on much before. "He'd be dead."

"She wouldn't allow it?"

"_**I**_ wouldn't allow it. He can do whatever he wants to me, but the second that fucker lays an unwarranted hand on my mom... No... No, he wouldn't walk away."

I make my way to his side, leaning against the railing and settling a hand on his shoulder. "Listen, you know I'm here if you need anything."

"Yeah, I know." He clears his throat, stomping out his cigarette and changing the subject, "We still on to paint the truck Saturday?"

I let everything else go for a moment. "Absolutely. Piers said he would help, too."

"Good. Should be a good time..."

Piers quietly open the backdoor and nods to Kyle, "I think she needs you."

"Sure. Coming." When Kyle hits the door, he side-steps Piers and says, "I need to handle this. Would you guys mind going through the side-gate to the front?"

I just nod, but the movement holds a lot more than a simple, "Sure, we won't cut through your house."

With a small, grateful smile, Kyle closes the door behind him, leaving Piers and I to our own devices in the cold Christmas air.

I've zoned out for a moment when I feel a hand grip mine and I look up to see Piers grinning at me.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For what?"

"I... Just everything. I just need to say 'thank you'. I feel like you've been a bit of a protector."

"Yeah, well, inside just now didn't go so well."

"But you stood your ground."

"I really didn't."

"Not from where I stood," he grins. "You didn't see your face, see your stance— You weren't going to take any of Terry's shit if he really dished it out."

Against my better judgment, I engulf Piers in a tight embrace. He tenses at first, but slowly relaxes into me and gives me a quick hug back. I let him go, murmuring, "Thank you, too."

That truly confuses him and he cocks an eyebrow. "Why are you thanking _**me**_?"

My mind goes to that moment when Piers shoved me into the safety of the escape pod, that moment when he injected himself, that moment when I felt an anguish that I've never been able to quite describe in even my lowest of moments.

Thank you for saving me. Thank you for coming back.

"Come on," I begin to lead the way back to the truck. "I think I have a way to salvage this Christmas."


	4. Chipped

11. Chipped.

I'm not quite sure what I'm doing as I drive to the field that Woodsford normally sets up their festivals in, but I am hoping they haven't taken down the decorations, especially considering it's still Christmas day.

I park the truck on Main Street and Piers and I hop out, him following behind me as I lead the way into the still-decorated field.

There are some people who have the damnedest time taking a compliment, no matter how heartfelt it may be given. You can stand them in front of a mirror and try to explain to them what you're viewing, but they'll never see it that way. Before them will be a distorted, disheveled, cracking shell, and no words will sway the otherwise.

You can try to project your visions onto the glass for them, try to have them see themselves through your eyes, but the rarely works, if at all.

So what good would it do for me to tell Piers how I see him? I don't even have a damn mirror with me. But there has to be some way for me to tell him that, no matter what he may see when he looks at himself, I see nothing but… beauty.

Selfless, loyal, pure beauty. And I don't know what to do with myself when I see it.

Thinking back on every reaction Piers has had to Kyle, I feel as if this portrait we're in is being ripped and the facades are being chipped away. It would just take one match to have everything go up in flames.

I would say fuck everything, but I can't scare Piers; if any move is to be made, it has to be on his part.

"You're quiet," he muses from beside me, a good meter separating us.

I hadn't even realized we made it into the middle of the field by the larger-than-life Christmas tree. "I'm just thinking. It's our first Christmas after… everything… and it already started off on the wrong foot. I'm sorry about that."

"It's not your fault. If anything you're trying to salvage the day. I think."

A sardonic chuckle escapes me. "Yeah. Though I don't know how."

I'm mid-step when a hand tentatively reaches out and grips my own, forcing me to stop and turn back, taking notice of Piers' slightly hazy expression.

"I wish I could remember more," he murmurs. "There's some glimpses of things every now and then… Some things that are a bit clearer than others." His eyes meet mine, both seeing and blind, and he levels at me, "What were we?"

"A captain and his soldier." A lost soul and his saviour.

Piers almost looks hurt. How is it Piers is synonymous with pain when I'm dropped in the mix?

"But these memories I have," he presses, "are they even real? Is it just something I'm making up?"

He can't remember those fucked up beautiful messes amidst the filth and shit, can he? Is that what he's held onto? I'm wary, far too wary, so how the inquiry of, "What are your memories" spills from me is a bit mystifying.

His gaze falters a bit. He doesn't want to voice it. But that's all the evidence I need to know his thoughts are resting on the fucks in the alley all that time ago.

"It was more than a Captain and his soldier, Piers." My arm separates from my body and raises on its own, my hand reaching out and tracing his jaw against my will.

He doesn't flinch, but he doesn't look 100% comfortable, despite his quiet admission of, "I thought so."

But he's not pulling away. So my fingers keep dancing across his smooth left cheek and his patchy, scarred right cheek, trying to pass a message from my fingers to his soul that he's perfect. That I've watched his insecurity build a residence inside of him instead of begin to be exorcised.

"You don't look like Kyle."

His eyes widen slightly before darting away. "Don't." With a wave of his arm, he disconnects from fingers fro his flesh. "I've already said I know what I look like. And I think I've done a damn okay job of trying to move past it."

"Why can't I tell you what I see?" Why can't I tell you how perfect you are?

"I don't need you building me up to just let me fall, Chris. And if you give me any kind of… any kind of false hope, it would kill me. And I've already died once."

My hands have fallen to lightly grip his own in what I hope is a move of protection and not necessarily possession. "What false hope could I give you?"

"Nothing." He shakes his head but makes no further movement.

I'm starting to get frustrated and I know it's irrational. But I can't stop it.

"Tell me what you want me to say then, Piers, please, because I'm drowning. What do you want me to say?"

"Just tell me the truth!" He snaps. "You want to play Captain? You want to be my guiding light? Then tell me the damn truth. Tell me what you see when you look at me."

"You want to hear that I see a monster, is that it? That all I see is scars, deformity, a reflection of my mistakes? Do you want to hear that I wish you looked like Kyle? Because I do, Piers. I see remnants of a monster when I look at you. And I do wish you looked like Kyle. I wish things were different an we weren't hiding away in some podunk town with people too naive for their own good. I wish I didn't have to take care of you, watch that you don't turn into a j'avo and go tearing through town. I wish all of those things, Piers. I wish normality was something visible from where we're standing, but it's just not. I'm learning to live with it. Apparently you are, too." I pause and run a hand over my face. "Satisfied?"

His demeanor is far too placid, as if I've merely commented on the passing clouds. "Very. How hard was that?"

Far harder than I'll ever admit. "Let's just go home."

"Why did we come out here anyway?"

I turn to glance over my shoulder as we walk to the truck and glimpse the same mistletoe that Kyle so dutifully avoided no that long ago. "No reason," I mutter.

Piers climbs into the truck and wraps his arms around himself. "You didn't do a bad thing," he comments absently.

Turning the engine over, I spare him a glance, "Hm?"

"By telling the truth. I respect you more for it."

The rest of the drive is silent, but I've said enough for one day as it is.


	5. Paint

Been debating posting this for almost two weeks… Kinda scared. I'll post the first part and see how it goes. Feedback is really welcome on this one. Thanks for all the support with the ups and down of this story!

* * *

13. Paint

I already knew he was going to find some way of getting out of helping us paint the truck, so when Piers finally did peak his head into the living room and mutter "I don't feel well" before going back into the bedroom, I wasn't surprised in the least.

"Do you need anything?" I hollered after him from under the covers of the pull-out.

"Just sleep," I barely heard called back.

"Do you feel odd?"

The door flew back open at that. "Yes, Chris. I feel 'odd.' I feel how I look. That good for you?"

_Fuck it, _I thought. I really couldn't handle him at that moment. "Fine, Piers. There's medicine and gummi bears in the cabinet over the sink."

He scoffed, "Really? Thanks, Captain." The door slammed shut again, the lock clicking and somehow echoing through the small space, like a reminder of... something... I'm too tired to even think of a metaphor.

But that was several hours ago. Now I'm outside with Kyle, the sanded-down truck between us as we run hunter green paint down opposites sides, sipping beer as Bon Jovi comes over the radio.

"So," he pipes up after a bit of silence, "is 'Piers' a nickname or something?"

My breath hitches and I force myself to keep rolling the paint, answering as smoothly as I possibly can, "What are you talking about?"

"You've called Finn 'Piers' a couple times now. Is it a nickname?" Smoothly, he enters my peripheral and leans against an unpainted portion of the truck, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips. "Listen, Chris, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. But... I'm not Joyce. I'm not Mrs. Peterson who runs the bakery and Thursday night church bingo. I'm not Kevin Da Sylva who manages the waste department and still has time to be Principal of our only high school. And I'm certainly not Terry."

I'm not picking up on his meaning, but, like always, I don't have to voice that for him to continue.

"My point is: Woodsford is far too tiny, and people hear everything you say. People talk. I remember when I came out to my mom six years ago, there was a prayer vigil and a ten foot papier-mâché rainbow on my front lawn the next morning. So just be careful, alright? We've all got secrets and things we're running from, but it'd be a shame if you had to pack up and leave now; especially considering you've just bought a decent house."

"Why are you so nice?" The words have slipped from my lips but I don't wish them back. I want to hear his answer. I feel as though I _**need**_ to hear his answer. If it's what I think it is...

I just need to hear it from someone, then I can push forward, keep going. Because for some irrational reason, I can draw strength from it.

He shakes his head, "I think I know what you want me to say and I'm not touching it with a ten-foot pole." Pushing himself off of the car, he strolls back to the other side of the car and continues painting.

I don't push. I don't ask again.

He just gave me the answer I want.

"Why did you decide to go with green?" He asks absently.

"Mine and P... Finn's favourite colour. Plus, it's all part of change. To make it red again would just... be going back to the past."

"I like how you're trying to sound a bit deep."

I flick paint at him. "Shut up."

Laughing, he attempts to rub the paint from his face, merely smearing it worse. "I get what you're trying to say, though, Mr. Redfield. You want everything new, everything different. Nothing from the past." He waits a beat before adding, "What about people, though?"

Now _**that**_ I hadn't thought about. And he knows. Especially considering how quiet and still I've become.

"Touchy subject?"

"Just one I've never touched."

"Then let's touch it now. Might be therapeutic for you."

"You know, Kyle Smithers, I think you've been fishing around for a certain answer that you're just not going to get."

"Well, if I'm not going to get it, just tell me what you think the answer is that I'm looking for. I'll know not to accept it as truth."

"You want—"

"Nah-ah. Nope. You have to come around here and tell it to my face."

He's a tricky bastard. "Why would it make a difference where I'm standing when you hear the answer that's not really an answer?"

"Because if I get really aggravated with you, I can dump paint all over you. Come on, Redfield, humour me."

So I do. I don't have a choice. I really don't. Because despite the fact that every ounce of my being is screaming that it's stupid, that's in some ways it's just wrong, that Piers...

Wait. What about Piers? Piers has been fighting me tooth and nail lately.

He doesn't want help. And I'm pretty sure he doesn't want my help. He wants things to be perfect or nothing at all.

I don't even realize how fast my feet have moved to the other side of the truck until I have Kyle pinned by his shoulders against the driver's side door. "I think you want to hear that I'm attracted to you. That my feelings run much deeper for you than just friendly. That Piers—Finn... That there's nothing there..."

Kyle's breathing is picking up, his eyes locked onto mine, lids dangerously close to dropping mid-way in anticipation. "And that's my non-answer answer?"

"Yes."

"And what's my actual-answer answer?"

And that's it. It's over. Whatever fine line Kyle and I have been walking over the past month is shredded as my lips latch onto his and give him no other alternatives than to respond or physically force me off.

But, as I knew, I don't have to worry about being shoved back into the dirt. His arms wrap around my shoulder, fingers digging into my back. "It's a dream," he murmurs when we're forced to break for air. "Has to be."

I hear a door open but pay it no mind, contenting myself to finding Kyle's lips again. Maybe it feels so good because it's been so long. And he _**wants**_ it. Genuinely wants it. No gimmicks. No strings. No conditions.

Pure want.

I should pay attention to what I hear around me, though. Maybe. I think I hear a door slam, but I'm still focusing on Kyle's hands roaming the expanse of my back as our tongues finally touch, far from tentative.

I should pay attention.

I should pay attention to the not-quite-stifled gasp.

I should pay attention.

I should pay attention to Kyle's legs almost giving out on him during one particularly heated pass.

I should.

I pay attention to Kyle's knees buckling, dropping him to the ground as I follow, my hands planted on either side of his face when I realize we've knocked over the paint bucket and are now lying in a pool of green.

He notices and laughs, "Par for the course, it seems."

"Huh?"

"Nothing. Um..." A nervous chuckle. "That was a good answer, Redfield."

"Stop it with the Redfield. Even kidding. Call me Chris." I push up and help him to stand with me. "Please."

He nods, a slight smile on the corner of his lips. "No problem. Chris."

"Alright. Well... We just wasted most of the pain... And you need to clean up. At least get a new shirt. Your back is dripping. I've got something that'll fit. Wait here."

"Oh, you mean I'm not allowed into your abode when I'm dripping—"

"No."

He raises his hands in defense. "I'll wait here, then."

With another quick kiss— more-so to solidify that the previous moment actually happened —I headed inside.

Even though I slept on the fold-out, all of my clothes were still in the bedroom closet. "Piers?" I knock lightly, hoping he's not in such a deep sleep that he won't wake up to unlock the door. "Piers?" For whatever reason, I try the door.

It's open.

"Piers?" Slowly, the door falls open to reveal an empty room. "Where in the hell did he go?" Grabbing the first clean shirt I find, I call his name once again, checking the bathroom to make sure he wasn't passed out. Christ. Christ, I don't need this.

But he's nowhere.

Finally I start to head back outside, only to see a piece of paper taped by the front door: "Went into town. I'll stay at that motel overnight. Have fun."

"Goddammit..."

"Everything okay?" Kyle approaches but stops at the bottom of the porch steps.

I just shake my head, locking the door and stepping to him, helping him to lift the ruined t-shirt from his torso and handing him the button-up. "I... I need to go into town."

"I'll drive."

"You don't—"

"If you tell me one more damn time that I shouldn't do something for you, I'm gonna box you, Chris. Now come on. Half of your truck's drying and I need to get more paint anyway."

Nodding, I follow him to his truck, muttering, "I think I really fucked things up this time."

"Did you ruin them?"

"Hm?"

He turns the engine and pulls out. "If something's fucked, it may seem bad, but it's not ruined. And then, sometimes even ruins can be beautiful. Look at Greece."

I find myself laughing, genuinely laughing. "I guess it's not so bad, then."

Now I feel his fingers intertwining with mine on the front seat. "No. It's not so bad at all."


End file.
